The embarrassment, the conflict on how forward one should be! August feels a bead of sweat trickle down his back. He pays Theo a quick glance, noticing how the other's chest heaves yet face only shows a gentle grin.
And then he remembers the lady's prior warning. "He is rather rude to men." Is this the part where Theo taunts August? His few interactions with other people his age have always resulted in some degree of bullying. After the embarrassing series of tumbles at the museum, this may be an opportunity for him to poke fun of that. It was rather pathetic, after all. Yet, he has been so nice this far- was it not genuine? How does one tell when another is being sarcastic? Supposedly, it is in the tone of the voice, but having just met Theo, August still cannot pick out his sincerity from dishonesty. He thinks hard. "What do you want from me?" Well, honesty is the best policy. Staring at the artwork in progress, he picks his response.
"I want to be the best artist possible," he whispers, "to save my ... rotten self."
Theo's eyebrows raise. He takes the stool across from August and sits on hit with his knee hiked up to his face. He mouths a 'wow' and nods.
"Rotten self? Do you seriously call yourself such a thing?"
He nods.
"So you are rotten, yet want to be the best artist?"
August looks at him, "y-yes. To fix myself..."
"But art is subjective! Is there truly someone who is the best, the ultimate artist?" Questions Theo.
August tilts his head, "m-m-maybe. I think, you."
Theo smiles even more. Once again, he motions for August to stick out his hands and like before, he carefully studies them in his grasp, his calloused hands feeling August's dry skin with a delicate touch. The sensation of another's body is gut wrenching, yet, August wishes for it not to stop.
"Typically, for one to become an apprentice, it requires putting together a well-executed portfolio and a resume of past artistic experiences. I was in that position about four years ago, when applying to art school, so I would rather not put you through a similar, excruciating process. I never liked the idea of evaluating another's work. Who am I to judge the value of your creations?"
August nods to show he is following along. Theo continues to play with his hands.
"But I would love to show you about art, especially if you like my style so much. So, I think the next appropriate question would be what art means about you, as I was asked this during my school interview. It is a rather dull yet overwhelming question, is it not? So instead, I urge you to answer this through your work. "
"I can see… your self-expression in your paintings," whispers August, still reflecting on Memories of my dear Winter.
"Can you? How embarassing! My soul is hideous. You must think I am ugly now. What can you say about me?"
August's lips quiver. "You're running from-" he breaths and looks at him, "-so-some-thing."
Theo lets go of the other's hands. He crosses his arms over his lap.
"Well, I suppose there is no hiding anything from you, then. All I can say is that I hope when you see more of my art, that you continue to learn more about me. Likewise, I want you to do the same, to tell stories with your illustrations. August, I need your artwork to tell me who you are!"
Theo walks over to a satchel. It is made of black canvas and sewn together with leather fixings, a bit similar to a book bag but far wider. He grabs some small paint brushes from the floor and tosses them in. He brings the bag to August.
"This will look quite good with your outfit. My, I never thought I would see someone in as much black as myself!" He jokes, though, August can only provide him with a pitiful smile.
"F-fo-fo-for- agh- for me?"
"Yes, for you! I am going to give you your first assignment and you'll need this to help you. You'll find my water paints inside- I will give you a demonstration on how to use them. Basically…," he stops to dig.
He grabs a piece of paper a bit too heavy to be used for writing a letter. He gives it to August so that he can feel, letting his fingers feel the width and slightly rough texture.
"You first need to lightly wet the paper- you must use a gentle hand! Don't worry, I will give you spare pages. To activate the paints, dampen them with a wet brush. I will let you experiment, do give yourself at least one scrap paper to feel comfortable with the medium. Ah, let me think… what else will you need?" He thinks out loud, eyeing the room for other materials.
August sits there politely, shifting with nerves in his seat. Although he admittedly had no expectations for today, this still is so unforeseen. Are most people this generous? The only gift he has ever received still rests peacefully against his chest. Must he carry around this satchel every day now too? He already decides on it- yes! The birds chirp cheerfully outside the window and the late afternoon sun pours through the western glass. A man he just met yesterday, a man he already idolizes, runs around gifting him things he does not even know the name of; he smiles. August smiles uncontrollably, ready to pinch himself but too scared to wake up from this dream.
"Assignment number one, are you ready?" Theo bends over, right into the other's face.
August quickly nods, "mhm!"
"I request that you draw a self-portrait. You, I want you to draw yourself. Be your own subject!"
Theo is gleaming, smiles and excitement, while August's emotions quickly turn to dread, so much so that his stomach begins to twist and turn. Questions of identity spark through his active mind. Who am I? What makes me myself? Am I more than my reflection in my mirror? His mind wanders back to the painting of the beggar boy. Certainly, he is no longer a young boy, nor does he have to beg for his next meal- but why did it feel like seeing myself for the first time? He tries to shake off the feeling, but the painting only becomes more and more visible each time he closes his eyes.
"I will… do my best," he whispers towards the floor, a bow to his head signals his gratitude.
"Return when you are done, or when you need me. I will be here. Though, try not to come before noon. i am rather cranky in the morning and am known to be a bit of a bitch. Once I have some coffee, I become a much nicer man. "
Theo goes to open the door out, a bounce to his step as he sees the other on his way. But before he leaves, August turns to him one last time.
"Before I go," he whispers before looking up at his new master, "your ge-ge-ge-generousi-ty-ty… um, why?"
Theo glows, "I am paying it forward. When I was a child, a stranger did something very generous for me. In return, I make sure to always do the same given my current privilege. Please, never think you owe me anything. It is the least I can do, August."
With nothing more to say, they exchange bows instead of handshakes. Theo's hands were shaking too much, he hid them behind his back. August believes he was not supposed to notice that, so he paid them no comment or further attention. Through the house, past the woman from before and out onto the street, he finds himself to be revived without ever knowing he was dead.
•••
Home is far. It takes almost two hours to return to the funeral house. Nestled in the woods on the edge of an old village, home is off the map for most city folks. As invisible as himself, a place only miserable, mourning people ever have to step foot in. His home. Home.
The rolling steam engine can still be heard in the far distance. He navigates down the cobble road with roots breaking through the stone. His only neighbour is a house left abandoned for four years now, after the last remaining occupant moved to the city to be closer to his children. The small town grows more and more empty each year. Perhaps the funeral house does not help the situation. It is a grim marker on the once quaint, dainty town.
"I'm home!" he announces as he enters the front door, leaving his shoes at the entrance in exchange for slippers. There is always a risk of cross contamination, as so his mother warns.
From the library, he hears his father vaguely call him name.
"What is it?" Shouts back August, fearing he is in trouble. The fact that he is nineteen years old means little to his parents.
"Come!" Father shouts back.
And so he creeps through his own house as if walking on eggshells. His shoulders drag as if they are weighted down, as if gravity just got stronger. He cannot even budge the muscles in his face to force a smile. Outside his father's office, he pokes his head it just to find his mother resting cross legged on the desk and his father on the chair. In unison, both his parents gasp.
"August!" His mother screeches.
"Your pants- what have you done, my child?" His father shouts.
Across his pants are splashes of blue, green and grey paint. They are dried, now part of the fabric forever. He bites his lip, but keeps his head up tall.
"Mom, dad… I have something to tell you both," he catches his breath, "I'm going to become an artist."